


For To See My Depth Of Sorrow

by verucasalt123



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Angsty Schmoop, M/M, Rape/Non-con References
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-04
Updated: 2013-03-04
Packaged: 2017-12-04 06:53:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,499
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/707828
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/verucasalt123/pseuds/verucasalt123
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>written for a prompt made by imogen_lily - John wants to know how Lestrade met Sherlock.</p>
            </blockquote>





	For To See My Depth Of Sorrow

**Author's Note:**

> The reference to rape/non-con is relayed in the narrative, a past incident.

Once, John had asked Greg why he put up with Sherlock. He’d been a right arse that night, raving through the pretend drugs bust in their flat then disappearing without a word, when John had asked the question. 

There was so much he didn’t know, right then. Sherlock’s reason for leaving so suddenly, the meaning behind Greg’s response to his question, the fact that within an hour he was going to shoot a complete stranger to death because Sherlock’s life was in danger. And of course, none of them knew at the time that months later, John and Sherlock would be _together_ , seemingly closer than most lovers who’d shared each other’s lives for many years. 

Another thing John didn’t know at the time…he’d asked Greg the wrong question. And now that he was well aware of exactly the question he _did_ want to ask, he found himself without a satisfactory explanation. 

“It was a case”, Sherlock responded, casually, the first time John had asked how he’d met Detective Inspector Lestrade. In the brilliant way that he could almost always pull off, Sherlock immediately changed the subject, using that insanely obvious yet easy to explain manner he used to distract people. It even worked on John, most of the time. It had that time. 

So John went on just imagining for a while. He could see a younger Sherlock possibly witnessing the aftermath of a crime, maybe calling it in to the police. Or maybe he came upon a crime scene while it was being investigated and gave his unwanted ‘opinion’ about what had happened to the authorities. He could almost picture it in his mind, Sherlock disheveled, maybe even high, considering the time of his life when he and Lestrade had first met, rattling off observations. Maybe he was cool and casual, maybe he was agitated and frustrated. Surely he would have been met with skepticism by the Yarders; insults, even (hell, that hadn’t stopped even now, years later, in some cases). Possibly Lestrade had realized Sherlock may be right, listened to him when the others wouldn’t. Got his number, remembered him, called him for help or ideas later when he was involved in particularly tough investigations. 

He wasn’t going to be content with imagining forever, though. Especially when he was absolutely certain there was something he didn’t know, something important. It wasn’t as if he were insecure enough to think Sherlock and Greg had some kind of _thing_ , like they were stealing kisses behind his back or something equally ridiculous, but sometimes he’d catch a significant look between the two of them when a case or a conversation turned to certain directions. He couldn’t make out any pattern, though, any specific subject that caused it. But he wasn’t making it up, and he wasn’t being silly and jealous. 

The truth was, John didn’t think he was entitled to know every last detail of Sherlock’s life before they met. Sherlock had certainly never demanded it from him. But Greg was their friend, they saw each other fairly often, and it almost felt as if the two of them were deliberately keeping a secret from John. And you know what, fuck _almost_ , because no, it wasn’t almost, it felt exactly like the two of them were keeping a secret from John.

Mycroft certainly knew more about Sherlock than anyone else on the planet, probably things Sherlock himself had no idea Mycroft was privy to. However, the idea of asking Mycroft was discarded almost as quickly as it was formed. John was not particularly fond of Sherlock’s brother, and he was dead certain that Mycroft would never tell him anything Sherlock didn’t want him to know. 

So maybe that was it. There was something specific that _Sherlock didn’t want him to know_. Which, of course, only made John more curious about what it was. He let a little more time go by until there was an opportunity when he and Greg were alone. Trying to sound casual about it, John ventured, “So, I never did find out how you and Sherlock met. On a case, I know, but…I guess I was just curious.”

“Sherlock told you we met on a case?”

Well, that was just the absolutely _wrong_ response. “Are you saying you didn’t?”

Greg sighed. “No, I’m not. We did meet on a case. Just wasn’t sure if he’d told you anything about it, specifically, that’s all.”

“If he had, I wouldn’t be asking you, now would I?” John’s tone reflected his irritation. He wasn’t being irrational, after all. Clearly, there was an industrial truckload of backstory there that was being kept from him by design, and he didn’t like it. At all.

“Look, mate, I’m not about to go telling stories that are Sherlock’s to tell, **if and when** he decides to tell them. To you or anybody else. Sherlock did not lie to you, the first time I met him I was working a case and he was present at the time. Anything else he wants to share with you about it is up to him. And quit looking at me like a jealous boyfriend, for Christ’s sake! You damn well know that I was a married man back then and Sherlock was a drug addict years younger than I was, it’s not like we had some torrid affair. Anyway, how would you feel if I knew something about you that he didn’t, and spilled it all over a few pints?”

John was chastened a bit at that. He knew he’d be angry if Greg betrayed his confidence to anyone, and when he thought about it, he knew Greg well enough to know it would never happen. Still, he’d heard enough. There was something there, something about how the two of them met, and Sherlock wanted it to be a secret. He didn’t want to tell John about it, and John couldn’t think of any valid reason for it. 

Apologizing to Greg, he just replied, “I’ll ask him again. If he wants to tell me, he will, if not, he won’t, and I’ll try to stop worrying about it.”

Again, John waited. Only a few weeks. He chose a moment when they weren’t in bed or expecting any calls or company. Sherlock was reading and John was typing away at his computer when John turned to his lover and simply said, “I’d like to know how you and Greg met each other, how you became friends. I won’t be angry if you say no. I’m just saying I want you to tell me.”

Sherlock looked up sharply from his book, the tone of his voice cold. “I don’t ask you to tell me war stories, John. It’s not because I don’t want to know them, it’s because I know you have nightmares and I have no desire to put you through reliving them.”

Oh.

John hadn’t considered…really, he hadn’t, he’d never thought the tale of how the consulting detective got his ‘job’ would be a painful one. Still unsatisfied not knowing the truth, he replied, “You’re right. I apologize, and I won’t ask again.”

And he didn’t. He loved Sherlock and respected the fact that he wanted to keep the matter private. He still wondered sometimes, but there was no way he was going to bring it up to either man. 

Months later, Sherlock was sitting by John’s hospital bed after he’d been concussed in a chase through dark streets after one murderer, who turned out to have an unseen accomplice. Before either of them knew it, a second man had appeared from an alleyway and John was lying in a pool of blood having had his head bashed in by a crowbar. Upon awakening, his first question was, “How long?”

Sherlock seemed to know exactly what he was asking. “Four days”, he replied. “You’ve been unconscious for four days. I was here, though”, he continued, reaching for John’s hand, “and I talked to you. I know you didn’t hear me, but the doctors and nurses kept telling me to do it, and it was too damned quiet in here.”

John started to laugh, then immediately stopped when he felt the pain blossom in the back of his head with just that slight movement. Sherlock quickly summoned the medical personnel to alert them that John had woken up, and he was shooed to the side as John was checked over, asked what he was sure Sherlock would think were inane questions, and then told to continue resting. After they were gone, Sherlock filled him in on exactly what had landed him in this hospital bed, still looking shaken.

“I’m all right, Sherlock. Honest. My head hurts like…well, like someone took a crowbar to it. But you heard them, I’ll be fine. Anyway, I’m a doctor, remember? I think I’d recognize it if I had brain damage or something.”

“I’m just so relieved. So happy to hear your voice. I couldn’t imagine…anyway, I made you a promise, here, while you were sleeping. I was trying to bribe you out of unconsciousness like a daft git. I promised you that if you would just wake the hell up, I’d tell you the whole story about how I met Lestrade. If you still want to know.”

Sherlock’s eyes held equal measures of challenge and uncertainty. John did still want to know. He also wanted to allow Sherlock to keep the promise he’d made. It was something he must have honestly wanted to do – John obviously didn’t hear him say it so Sherlock had no obligation to bring it up. 

“I do. If you want to tell me, then yes, I do want to know.”

“All right, but just let me do this. Don’t stop me or ask me anything, just…I’ll tell you the story, and that’s it.” John nodded slightly as he watched as Sherlock set his jaw, took a deep breath and started speaking. 

As it turned out, they’d both (obviously) been telling the truth all along. Greg had met Sherlock on a case. But Sherlock wasn’t there to help. He’d gone to his drug dealer to ask for a gram of cocaine and offered to pay for it with an expensive watch that was worth far more than the forty or so pounds he would have had to pay in cash. Sherlock, though, like so many junkies, had no money. The dealer had laughed at Sherlock’s offering, but took something else instead. His eyes glazed over as he recounted what he recalled of the incident; being too weak to fight the man, having his left cheek and shoulder pushed into the bricks of an alley behind a bar, his trousers yanked down as he was pinned against the wall and brutally raped. Hell, he had even tried not to scream because he didn’t want to draw attention. 

The man, at least, had thrown the gram of coke in a little plastic baggie next to Sherlock’s hand once he finished and let him fall to the ground. Then he just walked away laughing.

Mycroft’s people were alerted through the CCTV cameras and he was already on the way there, but not before some innocent passers-by had seen Sherlock and phoned the police. By the time the big black car pulled up, Greg Lestrade and two other officers were already on the scene. His brother’s influence worked in his favor, and Sherlock avoided a ride in an ambulance after he’d given his statement. Good thing, Sherlock had thought at the time, because he’d stuffed that baggie of cocaine into his pocket even before he’d had his jeans pulled back up properly. 

Sherlock had given his statement there at the scene so that he wouldn’t have to go to the station, and Lestrade had taken his and Mycroft’s contact information. He’d called a couple of times, genuinely concerned. He recognized that he’d met a young man who’d found himself in a difficult situation but had what it took to make a much better life for himself if he wanted to. The two of them spoke a few times before Sherlock casually mentioned his observations about a newspaper article he read regarding a string of armed robberies. Lestrade’s name was connected to the investigation, and it seemed to be going nowhere.

It wasn’t _his_ investigation. The police had never found Sherlock’s dealer-turned-attacker. That wasn’t to say that no one ever found him. Just not anyone from the Met. Mycroft had a long reach. The man had been found, but he wasn’t ever going to be found again. Enough said about that.

So that was how it had started. As harrowing as his experience had been, he didn’t give up the drugs right away. That took time, longer than he expected it would, but it did eventually happen. For a few months, he stayed with his brother intermittently as he made his way on and off the proverbial wagon on several occasions. 

Mycroft worried terribly when Sherlock was gone, but never hesitated a moment to welcome him back and let him stay as long as he liked every time. All he wanted was for his brother to _stop this_ , but he knew Sherlock would come to it in his own time. It wasn’t going to do either of them any good to hear or hand out lectures on the subject. 

Sherlock spoke with the Yarder who’d shown an interest in him more often as the months went by, and eventually started informally consulting on cases. It took even longer than that before Sherlock and Greg had begun to form a real friendship. 

John sat quietly the whole time, just letting Sherlock tell the story to only the third person he’d ever told it to – probably only the second person he’d told all of it to. No way he would have been so detailed relating the events to his brother. Once it was clear that Sherlock had said all he was going to say on the subject, John found his voice again.

“I am so, so sorry. I wish I knew what else to say. Something wise and profound that a man would say when they find out a terrible thing happened to the person they love. But I don’t. Just – God, I wish I’d never asked. And like you said about my war stories, not because I don’t want to know, but because I think it hurts you to talk about it, and I don’t want you to hurt.”

Sherlock clasped his hand tighter and responded, “I know. And I don’t want you to wonder. So there it is. Not a pretty story, but the whole truth. I’m glad you didn’t know me then.”

Without even a hint of doubt in his words, John said, “There’s never a time I would have not wanted to know you, Sherlock. We’ve all got our horror stories. Maybe ours are worse than the average guy’s, but we’ve got each other, too.”


End file.
